The Traces We Leave
by Laura Schiller
Summary: There are so many "Rose's successor finds her old room and is thoroughly humbled by Ten/Rose's epic love" stories that I decided to put a twist on the idea. Spoilers for series 6.


The Traces We Leave

By Laura Schiller

Based on: Doctor Who

Copyright: BBC

Rory Williams was spending more time in the TARDIS' medical bay than he expected. Not only to take care of his and Amy's and, very rarely, the Doctor's various injuries, but simply for the familiarity of it. On the nights he had trouble sleeping (two thousand years as an Auton Duplicate will do that to a man), he often wandered into this room, with its white walls and clean cots and smell of disinfectant, and tried to imagine he was back at the hospital in Leadworth, getting ready for a night shift. Back in a world where he had been in control.

Of course, the futuristic equipment and Doctor's cllection of medical texts – from vellum scrolls to Kindles and everything in between – were usually enough to jolt him back to reality.

He pulled out the first thing from the shelf that looked familiar, a well-worn, spiral-bound booklet with a _caduceus_ symbol on the cover. It reminded him of the textbooks he had gone through while training as a nurse. It also looked rather pathetically out of place, wedged between a clay tablet inscribed with alien pictographs and a medieval tome bound in calfskin. He flipped it open.

On the first page was a name, written in clear, round, confident letters: _Martha Jones._On the following pages, the same hand had highlighted, underscored and scribbled comments in the margins on almost every page . Rory's own books, left behind at his childhood home on a small faraway planet, looked much the same.

His first incongruous thought was, _She must have been well ticked off when she realized this was missing. _His second thought was, _What's it doing in the Doctor's private collection?_

"Who's Martha Jones?" he murmured out loud.

A light fixture next to the door blinked off and on, a sign he had learned meant that the TARDIS was trying to get his attention. He and the living ship had something of a rapport, which amused Amy and rather annoyed the Doctor.

"You want me to follow?" he asked.

Blink, blink.

"Okay."

He shrugged, tucked the book under his arm, and went out into the corridor. After all, he had nothing else to do until the others woke up. He might as well go explore.

It turned out to be a very short trip. Martha's room, perhaps tellingly, was directly opposite the medical bay. The door slid open to reveal a space that almost reminded him of a hotel room. The walls were a pleasant shade of light blue, the bed was generously covered in red blankets and embroidered pillows, and a painting hung above the dark wooden desk which he recognized as a copy (hopefully a copy) of Monet's _Poppy Field_. But there were no clothes, no books, no scattered bits of makeup and jewelry such as Amy left all over their suite. Everything was so clean, too – the bed made, the desk bare and empty. Had the Doctor cleaned up after her, or had she done it herself? Rory's suspicion tended to the latter, as he had never seen the Doctor doing anything approaching housework.

The closet stood ajar. Rory opened it and frowned: the only items inside were a black dress, a white apron – a housemaid's uniform, he guessed – and a long gray coat. They looked very small, hanging there in a space large enough for a woman's entire wardrobe. Why would a medical student need to dress up as a maid? And why had they been left behind when all her other belongings were gone?

The only other personal touch was a framed photograph, facedown on the nightstand. Rory turned it right-side up with careful fingers. It was in black and white: a spiky-haired man in a pinstriped suit, with one arm around the shoulders of a petite, dark-skinned, frizzy-haired woman in bellbottom jeans and a tie-dyed blouse. Her face was turned up towards him, while he grinned at the camera. They were both holding enormous puffs of cotton candy, standing in front of what appeared to be a Ferries wheel. The back of the photo, visible from the other side of the frame, read: _The Doctor and I, London, May 6, 1969._

1969. The year of Lake Silencio. How typical, to have at least two Doctors running around on Earth that year. This must have been one of his previous regenerations.

The way Martha looked up at the carelessly grinning Doctor – eyes shining, mouth slightly open, as if to laugh or ask a question, joy and trust in every line of her face – made Rory sigh into the empty room and put the picture down again.

"This is a private room, Mr. Pond," said a hard voice from behind him. "You shouldn't be here."

Rory turned around. The Doctor, leaning against the doorframe, glared at him with a forbidding authority that was not diminished in the slightest by a fuzzy bathrobe and bare feet. Most people would have made themselves scarce at this point, but the Last Centurion was not easy to intimidate.

"The TARDIS let me in," he replied calmly, holding up the book. "I was curious. Was she a friend of yours, Doctor? What happened to her?"

The Doctor rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "Thanks a lot, old girl. Now what?"

The door began to close, ungracefully shoving him into the room. He threw up his hands. "I get the picture! Why do you always take his side, eh? It's almost as bad as flying with River!"

The door did not budge.

"Speaking of River," said Rory, holding up the suspiciously romantic-looking photograph, "Was this _before_ you met her?"

Because if it wasn't, he might need to have a few words with his future son-in-law.

"Yes, it was," said the Doctor, smiling crookedly. "No need to get your _gladius_ out just yet, Centurion. Anyway, me and Martha were just friends. Good friends. Brilliant girl, Martha Jones. You'd like her."

He took a hesitant step towards Rory and reached out for the photograph, which Rory handed over.

"What happened to her, Doctor?" _If you were such good friends, why haven't we met her, or even heard of her? Did she die on one of your adventures? Was she another girl you left behind?_

The Doctor focused on the picture with his most eerie, faraway look, as if his green eyes could penetrate time and space and see right into the moment it was taken.

"She … she left me, that's all," he finally said, after a silence so long Rory had wondered if he was ever going to answer.

"Why?"

"Because I couldn't be what she needed," replied the Doctor, with an uncomfortable shrug of his skinny shoulders. "Last I saw her, she was chasing Sontarans with her husband. They looked pretty happy, so I figured I'd better leave them alone."

Rory's imagination filled in the blanks: what Martha Jones had needed, written so clearly in her shining eyes in that photograph, had been the Doctor's love. His admiration for this unknown woman increased – good for her, respecting herself enough to walk away and marry someone else.

"She reminds me of you sometimes, actually," said the Doctor. "Maybe that's why the TARDIS brought you here."

"W-what?"

"She was a medical student, as you may have noticed," gesturing to the booklet. "But she didn't just study medicine, she _breathed _it. Wherever we went, if anyone was hurt, she'd drop everything and rush over to help. I expected so much of her – too much, I see that now – but she never, _ever_ gave up. Martha Jones, the Doctor's doctor … Sometimes, Rory," clapping him on the shoulder, "In the words of the immortal Joni Mitchell, _you don't know what you got 'til it's gone_. Sometimes … sometimes, I admit, I take people for granted. I hope you realize, Rory Williams, that you're not one of those people."

Rory met the Doctor's earnest green eyes with some confusion, as the conversation no longer seemed to be about Martha.

"You're not just some, some sort of accessory to Amy and River," the Doctor continued, gesturing awkwardly. "You haven't been for a long time. I've respected you ever since you _didn't_ call my TARDIS 'bigger on the inside'. You're smart, you're compassionate, and you're not afraid to call me out on my mistakes. I couldn't ask for a better father-in-law … or a better friend."

In one of his sudden mood swings, the Doctor pulled Rory in for a tight, swaying, back-slapping hug. Just as Rory was asking himself how best to dislodge his armful of Time Lord before all that fluffy hair made him sneeze, the Doctor stepped back, grinning like a little boy.

"Um … good to know, mate, " said Rory, his attempt to restore masculine dignity coming out as more like a croak. "Yeah. So. I should be getting back to sleep."

"Of course, of course!" The Doctor shooed him forward, still smiling. "Big day ahead of us!"

"Aren't they always?"

"I mean _really_ big. Brand-new alien planet big. But don't let me spoil the surprise!"

The TARDIS, apparently satisfied with their conversation, opened the door to let them both through.


End file.
